


Letters from a stranger

by dunklenacht310



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: A lot of them - Freeform, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Harry, Feels, Gay Sex, Love Letters, M/M, Memory Loss, Slow Burn, Top Zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 21:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19754479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dunklenacht310/pseuds/dunklenacht310
Summary: If he’s honest with himself, Harry thinks he just felt uncomfortable in his own bedroom because he now feels a bit uncomfortable in his own skin. It’s like he’s another person, he feels… different. Like the accident changed something in him, deep down, something he can’t pinpoint.-Harry doesn't remember much, after the accident.Things slowly come back to him. Everything comes back.Well, not everything. But the most important things came back, didn't they? So it's okay.One day, he finds a box of letters, and because he's a very curious person, he starts to read them.And he slowly starts to fall in love with someone he's never even met.





	Letters from a stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't know or own any of the characters present in this work. I only own the plot.

Harry wakes up, and he doesn’t exactly know where he is.

It happens sometimes, now.

He tries to place everything together by himself, staying in bed with his eyes on the ceiling, counting the cracks and forcing his brain to _work_.

He gives up after ten minutes, when his breath becomes a bit ragged and his head starts pounding.

He turns, and looks at the note he left for himself on the nightstand.

_You’re at your own place. You renovated your whole bedroom, that’s why it feels foreign. Niall helped you, remember? Breathe._

As soon as he reads the note, Harry’s brain starts whirring at a normal pace, and he remembers.

When he woke up after the accident, he couldn’t remember anything, not even his name.

Then, slowly, day by day, he remembered. His name, the people closest to him. His friends of a lifetime, Niall, Liam and Louis. His family. Everything.

Well, almost everything.

He still doesn’t remember much of what happened. They told him he had a really bad car accident at the beginning of July, and that he was unconscious for three weeks.

They told him his memory is a bit damaged, which Harry had already understood by that point, seeing that there were people in his room calling themselves his family and friends, and they looked like complete strangers to him.

But well, the memories came back to him. Some people he remembered just after ten minutes of intense staring. Other people and things took some days. But they all came back.

Sometimes, though, he still forgets stuff when he wakes up. It eventually comes back to him anyway, but he feels a bit like a nutcase when it happens, and fishing the memories from the sea of nothingness his brain becomes in that moment is always so hard. So he followed his sister’s advice, and started leaving notes for himself, in case he wakes up and doesn’t remember.

The doctors say that this kind of occasional memory loss after sleeping is weird, and that there’s not a good chance it will be fixed. Harry really hopes they’re wrong. It’s not pleasant, waking up and not remembering things. And it’s been three months already.

He still has no recollection of the accident. That’s probably the only thing Harry will be glad if he doesn’t ever remember. His mother said it was awful, and that the person in the other car got hurt as well. She said it was no one’s fault, that it was raining so hard it was impossible to see anything, and that the street was a two-way, but it was small, and there was nothing Harry or the other driver could have done to realize they were both trespassing on the other insignificantly thin lane.

A frontal accident.

Harry strokes his eyes with his fingertips, trying to stop thinking about something he doesn’t remember anyway. He remembers all the rest, all the important things, and that has to be enough for now.

He sits up and looks around the room, slowly remembering that it felt too big for some reason, and he’d asked Niall to help him do something with it.

They set up a small studio for one half of the bedroom. Now Harry has a brand new desk with a big, comfortable swivel chair, a whiteboard, an armchair, new bookshelves.

He’s a writer, so he needed the studio eventually. He just doesn’t know why he even waited so long to use all the space in the bedroom. No one needs a bedroom that big.

If he’s honest with himself, Harry thinks he just felt uncomfortable in his own bedroom because he now feels a bit uncomfortable in his own skin. It’s like he’s another person, he feels… different. Like the accident changed something in him, deep down, something he can’t pinpoint.

He constantly feels like he’s missing something, and he decided to fill this unknown void by filling the unused space in his bedroom. Or, that’s what his sister says. She’s a therapist, so she probably knows best.

Harry stands up from the bed and balls up the note, throwing it into the bin under his new desk. He doesn’t need the note anymore, he remembers everything now. It’s been quite easy, this time. Sometimes it takes him hours to place everything back together.

Maybe he’s already recovering, who knows.

He makes himself some breakfast, walking quietly through the house. He doesn’t even know why he always has this habit of being quiet in the early mornings, since the house is empty except for him anyway. Go figure.

Harry brings his bowl of Greek yoghurt and cereal, and his mug of coffee, back to his bedroom. Well, studio. He sits at the desk and turns on his computer, complimenting himself when he has zero doubts about what his password his. He sticks his tongue out at the note he made for himself on the table with all his important accounts and passwords, because it’s been weeks since he last needed to check.

His brain is getting stronger for sure.

He rolls his eyes as soon as he thinks it, because well, he remembered the password, but he forgot he changed his wallpaper.

He remembers when he sees it, though, as usually happens. It’s a drawing he probably found on the internet, a fanart of himself with the curls exaggerated and shot in all directions, one of his floral shirts on, while he smiles and signs autographs. There are a lot of fanarts about him and his books around the internet, these days.

He was only starting to get recognized, months earlier. Then, the accident gave his career the boost it needed. It goes without saying that Harry would have rather stayed a totally non-famous writer, and keep all his mental faculties.

As it is, what’s done is done. He’s published two books at the moment, and his second one is in the top of the charts. Harry doesn’t even like it that much, he prefers the first one. It’s a bit sad to think that people probably only bought it because it was ‘the book by the guy who ended up in a coma and then woke up all fucked up in the head’.

Harry’s first book is called _One Night_. It’s about a couple who break up after the loss of a child, and the whole story revolves around them finding their way back to each other and realizing that they still love each other. The reader doesn’t know they lost their son until the very end of the book, when the two characters finally open up and speak, and as they do, the reader understands the meaning of all the hints dispersed through the book. Harry’s kinda proud of that one.

His second novel is called _Memory_ , and, very ironically now, it’s the story of someone who suffers memory loss every 12 hours, due to a rare mental disease. He falls in love, and it’s a mess, because he basically forgets the person he loves exists twice a day. It doesn’t have a happy ending, because it turns out the person the protagonist falls in love with doesn’t exist _period_ , because it’s a figment of his imagination, something his brain created to help him cope with forgetting all the rest. In the end, he manages to never forget his beloved. Too bad said beloved does not, in fact, exist. Harry was feeling very angsty when he wrote that one.

_Memory_ got published a week before the accident. Harry doesn’t remember much of that day, but he vaguely remembers sitting for hours at a meet&greet, signing autographs, being hungry, someone bringing him his favourite strawberry milkshake, probably Niall.

Harry is already working on a third novel. It doesn’t have a title yet, nor does it have a plot, to be honest. He’s got pages and pages of brainstorming on his computer, a couple really good ideas if he says so himself, but he’s still studying to give the story a real plot. He’ll get there. Luckily, his publisher hasn’t given him a deadline yet. He has time.

Harry manages to put down a decent and credible plotline. It takes him more than three hours, so when he’s done, he decides to take the rest of the day off and start the first chapter the next day.

He gets dressed and takes a walk. Maybe he’ll eat something downtown. He’s been craving junk food for quite some days now. Maybe he’ll indulge himself as a prize for being done with the draft of the draft of the draft of the plot. Whatever.

He gets out of the house and takes a detour through the park in front of it, crossing its whole length and enjoying the sun on his skin despite it being the middle of autumn. When he gets to the other end of it, he’s rewarded with the sight of the sparkly surface of the lake, the clear blue sky reflected on it, and the green of the grass all around.

He loves this spot. He wrote most of his two books sitting right under the oak tree growing next to the left edge of the lake.

Harry sees a couple of dogs by the tree, barking and happily playing with some box. Harry smiles, and the dogs kinda ignore him until they start playing with the poor carton package too much, and one of the sides gets completely torn.

A cascade of letters explodes around the dogs. They whine a little, sniffing the letters, and then they decide to go look for some more resistant toy, probably.

Harry sighs to himself and spares a glance at all those letters. He wonders where they came from.

Harry has always been curious. So he doesn’t question it further, and just reaches the oak tree, sitting on the grass and examining the letters a little.

All the envelopes are blank except for a date. Harry picks some of them up, and sees that the oldest letters date to about three months prior. Harry doesn’t know what to do. Should he open them? Should he just throw them away?

He counts them, thoroughly putting them in chronological order, because he likes putting things in order. There are eighty-nine letters, starting on the 28th of July; the most recent seems to have yesterday’s date, the 25th of October.

Harry stares at the letters for a while, pondering what to do. Then he sighs to himself, puts them back into the box, and heads home bringing it with him.

*

_Hey, babe._

_Do you remember that time when we were eleven and we stole those kids’ bicycles and drove them up the hill? You kept screaming we were gonna be arrested. I told you that we were just borrowing them. I was lying, you know. I knew we were never gonna bring them back._

_But when we reached the top of the hill and you looked at the city in the valley, the sun was just starting to set. You were golden, that afternoon. I think that was the day I first understood that I loved you._

“Ah, fuck” Harry sighs, tearing his gaze from the first letter of the pile.

Maybe he shouldn’t read it. It already seems too fucking personal. This looks like a _love_ letter, and it’s just not right to intrude in someone’s love life like that, right?

And yet, there’s something about the rawness of the tone. The person writing feels to Harry like someone who started because they didn’t know what else to do. And the letters were about to be eaten by dogs or thrown in the lake. It would be a waste, if no one could witness this kind of openness.

It’s an excuse, Harry scolds himself. He’s just a nosey motherfucker.

Nevertheless, he keeps reading, crossing his legs on the couch of his living room.

_Did you also understand you loved me that day? We kissed, that day. Our first kiss, although now you always say it didn’t count, because it was just an experiment to see what it felt like. I can tell you, it felt like fucking heaven for me. And I never stopped thinking your lips felt like heaven, not even in all the years after that in which we didn’t even touch each other._

_You were my first kiss, and you’re gonna be my last, babe._

Harry feels a bit like crying, and it’s stupid, it’s just a letter written by someone he doesn’t know to someone else he doesn’t know.

It’s just… they feel so intense, the things this person is pouring into the paper.

_I kissed more people in the years after our first kiss. It felt right to do it, at the time. But it never felt quite the same as kissing you. Did you also think nobody else’s lips felt quite like mine?_

_I can’t even remember the names of the people I kissed in between our first kiss when we were eleven, and our real first kiss, as you call it._

The first letter ends like that, with no goodbye sentence nor a signature. Harry thinks it feels more like a diary entry than an actual letter, and he wonders if the person ever planned on sending it. Maybe they didn’t.

The handwriting is small and pointy, and Harry can read it easily, even if he knows he always has problems with other people’s handwriting. Hell, sometimes he even has problems with his own handwriting.

Niall, Louis and Liam come to dinner at his place. He doesn’t tell them about the letters, because it doesn’t seem to have much importance.

And yet, when they go away and Harry slides under his duvet, he brings the second letter with him, dated 29th of July. Harry has checked them all, and he knows there’s a letter for every single day from July 28th to October 25th. Like a diary, he thinks again as he opens the envelope and settles with his back against the pillows.

_Do you remember when you told me you hated me, babe?_

_I know, I know you don’t wanna think about that. But I’m thinking about it now. You were so beautiful that night, but I never told you, because we’d decided we were gonna be Just Friends. Just friends my arse, on hindsight._

Harry chuckles.

_You were pissy all night. It was Mary Windsor’s party, our second year of college. I didn’t wanna go, but you and the lads forced me to come. I got a bit drunk when I saw you dance with that guy, what was his name, Mike? Jake? Something with ‘—ke’. You were dancing with him, moving your hips in ways that shouldn’t be legal, and Mike/Jake was clearly enjoying it._

_I wanted to be the one dancing with you, but we were Just Friends, you see. You’d been very clear about our Just Friend-ness. So I got drunk. And I made out with Christian Flint. I remember his name just because I chose him to spite you, I knew you hated him._

_You saw us. You looked so good even when you got angry about your Just Friend snogging some other guy. Okay, okay, I’ll stop with the ‘Just Friends’ jokes. But you did get angry, didn’t you?_

_I guess in that moment you understood how I felt every time you fucked some other guy, and that’s why you really got angry._

“It’s two guys” Harry realizes, talking a bit to himself.

_You came up to me when Christian Flint stopped snogging me to go get more drinks. You were livid, babe. You told me I could have something better than Christian Flint. I laughed, but I was dying inside a little. I answered “What’s better than him? You?”. And you were almost crying. You told me you hated me, then. I’ll never forget it._

_I thought it served you right, for not giving us a chance. The truth is that I didn’t fight for that chance either._

_And we were so stupid that we let two more years pass before mustering the bollocks to tell each other that we did deserve a chance, because we weren’t Just Friends, we never were since that afternoon on the hill._

Harry sighs. People can be stupid, can’t they? These two people apparently loved each other since they were eleven, and it took them _years_ to realize it. Harry wonders how they finally managed. He also wonders what happened to them, if the person is just writing because he wants to put down what he’s feeling, or if something happened, and he _needs_ to. Harry knows something about _needing_ to write down stuff, doesn’t he.

He knows he should sleep. And yet he doesn’t want to, he wants to read some more. He’s hooked on the story, that’s all. So he takes the following letter from the box.

_We were fifteen when I first asked you to go out, remember?_

_You were surprised for a second, and then you laughed. You thought it was a joke. Well, now I know you pretended to think it was a joke, and you were just scared._

_Two guys dating in a town as small as ours didn’t seem that good of an idea at the time. And you were Student Council President, you were the star of the school, all those things. You didn’t need being gay thrown in the mix. So you laughed, and my heart broke a little that day, but I understood. So I laughed too, and I pretended it was a joke as well._

_It’s never been a joke, though._

_I know it’s never been a joke to you, either._

_You dated a lot of girls after that. I was your best friend, so I was there all the time. Do you remember Cecilia Waters? She was a couple years older than us. You dated her three weeks, and she was the one you lost your virginity to. You told me all the details, and I listened. That night, I wanked to what you told me, and I tried to convince myself I was wanking to Cecilia, but the truth is that I wanked to you. I even cried a little afterwards, because I knew you didn’t like Cecilia. So I didn’t understand why you would even fuck her, when I was there, I was right there, and I knew you liked me. You did, didn’t you? You loved me already then, babe. That’s why you never fucked me, not until many, many years later. You didn’t care if the fucking ruined what you had with Cecilia, because you didn’t love her. But you were scared about love ruining what we had._

_I was too angsty to see it as clearly as I see it now._

Harry smiles. The memories of this person are so vivid, so perfect, that he feels like he’s watching them. He should write a book. Harry would tell him, if he had even half a clue who this man is. But he doesn’t.

Harry falls asleep after that, and he has weird dreams about bikes running over hills, college parties, teenagers fucking for the first time, and long eyelashes.

*

Harry wakes up before his alarm, and he reaches for him by his side, finding the bed empty.

He frowns. Who is he even looking for? He’s pretty sure he went to sleep by himself, as usually happens, considering that he lives alone and all that.

He blinks, and sees the box of letters on the floor. He sighs, and picks up the next letter as he stands up and goes to the kitchen to have breakfast. Only one, he promises himself. Then he needs to work on writing something himself.

*

The tenth letter begins with a sentence that makes Harry’s heart tighten a little.

_I haven’t spoken to you in more than a month, and I miss your voice, babe. It kills me, that our stupid fight was the last time you heard my voice as well._

Harry’s stomach churns unpleasantly. What if… what if the person for whom the letters are written is _dead_? He shakes his head, he doesn’t want to think about it.

_My mother always told me ‘Never go to bed without solving whatever conflict you had with the people you care about, sunshine’. I’ve always been pretty good at solving fights, haven’t I? But that night I let it get the best of me._

_And it didn’t matter that mere hours later I was coming back to you. We never got the chance to speak anyway. And now I can’t talk to you anymore._

“He’s dead” Harry decides. It’s obvious, from the tone, from the way the Writer—yeah, Harry calls him the Writer now—is sure that he won’t ever be able to speak to him again.

Harry should stop reading these fucking letters. He swore to himself _just one_ , and now he’s already at the tenth letter, his own book forgotten, because there’s something that draws him towards the Writer and what he feels, Harry needs to _know_.

_Our first fight after we started properly dating was stupid as well, do you remember? I was late for your first important night. You said that I thought your job was bullshit. I didn’t, babe, I was so fucking proud of you. Still am._

_I proved to you how proud I was by showing you that I’d gone to buy your book before coming to the meet &greet, so that I could be in the line with everybody else and get your signature. I was late because it was a sold out in most bookstores. You laughed your arse off, and showed me that of course you’d asked your publisher to give you another free copy for your fucking boyfriend._

Harry bites down on his bottom lip. So the Writer’s boyfriend was a writer as well. Harry feels like this could be his story as well, having a boyfriend who comes late to an important night of his, having a fight, ending up laughing. It could be _anyone’s_ story, couldn’t it. Everybody could relate to the despair and rawness of the Writer’s pages. That’s what would make a good book out of these letters.

Harry shakes his head, and keeps eating his breakfast, and keeps reading.

_We made up, just like that. It was so easy to make up, wasn’t it, babe? We can fight like no one’s business, but I love you so much that I can’t ever stay mad at you for long, and you’re the same. You forgave me. Do you remember how?_

Harry’s brain produces a very filthy image on his own, without any apparent reason, and really? Of all the things. This guy’s here talking about a fight and love and forgiveness, and here Harry is, thinking that blowjobs are a good show of forgiveness.

_You gave me a blowjob right against the kitchen counter._

Harry almost chokes on his yoghurt. He splutters and coughs, managing not to ruin the letter, and then regains his breath, drinking a little bit of water. This fucking Writer always mentions filthy stuff when Harry least expects it.

_It was one of the best blowjobs of my life. All of them are your doing, of course, but that one was one of your best accomplishments. You kneeled in front of me, kept your eyes on me, and started from the underside in the way you knew I like best. Your tongue has always been wicked, babe. You took me in your mouth, kept bobbing your head up and down, and when I was a complete and utter mess, you just stopped and grinned at me before asking me to fuck your mouth._

_I did._

“Fucking hell” Harry murmurs, feeling himself fill up instantly “You’re a good writer, Writer, but this looks like a sex scene in an E-rated fanfiction”

Nonetheless, Harry’s hard right now. He can see his dick tent his sweats, and he doesn’t even know in how long he hasn’t had sex, but it must be a long fucking time, for him to get aroused at some stranger describing a blowjob.

_You love it, when I fuck your mouth, do you remember?_

_You love that I grab your hair and pull and buck my hips to make you take it. You gag, but you love that as well. You feel guilty about it afterwards, you always say that you feel like a slut for liking it. As I always tell you, I’m yours and you’re mine, and nothing we do with each other can be slutty. You’re so fucking sexy when you let me fuck your mouth, and that’s the tea._

“Yeah, that’s the tea” Harry agrees with no reason at all.

The letter is done, and Harry is still rock-hard in his sweats. He rolls his eyes at the letter, putting it back in its place in the box, and despite himself, goes to the bathroom to shower and take care of the problem at hand.

Literally.

If he thought maybe his stupid erection would go away in the time it takes him to get undressed and to open the warm water, Harry’s sorely mistaken. When he gets inside the shower, he hisses at the feeling of his own hand on his dick. He lathers himself in soap, and then uses a generous amount on his erection, gripping himself tightly and starting to tug while the warm water cascades around him.

_You’re so fucking sexy when you let me fuck your mouth, and that’s the tea_ , the Writer’s voice says in Harry’s head.

_How can he even have a voice?_ , Harry thinks to himself.

But the voice he’s imagining is nice. Very raspy, but not that low. He’s got a thick accent, and Harry is probably losing his mind, because not only he made up a voice, but he also gave it a northern English accent. Why, nobody will ever know.

Harry wanks quicker, his breath coming out in uneven gasps. It’s been ages, hasn’t it.

When he’s close, he imagines strong hands on his back, full lips whispering filth to his ears, and caramel eyes crinkled in a smile.

He comes with a grunt, his legs giving up and his kneecaps hitting the tiles of the shower in a painful way. Harry stays on his knees, his hands against the wall of the shower and his breath ragged, wondering where the fuck those lovely eyes came from.

*

“Will you ever tell me what the fuck’s wrong with you?” Niall asks that morning.

Harry hums, frowning at his friend. “Me?”

“Yeah, Haz. You look like you haven’t slept in ages”

They’re walking towards a café where they’re supposed to grab a coffee with Louis and Liam, and well, Niall’s kinda right.

Harry hasn’t slept much, because he’s spent his nights reading the Writer’s letters.

He’s gotten to letter number thirty-four. It’s always a journey, reading the letters. Harry never knows if the Writer will talk about a memory that he has of the man he loves, or if he’ll just write about a thought, a feeling, something he’s been thinking since his lover’s gone.

Because his lover is clearly not in the picture anymore. Harry understood it quite early in the letters, if he’s honest. The Writer never writes any real details about what happened. At least he hasn’t up until the point Harry’s gotten with the letters. But Harry understood anyway.

Maybe later on he will give details. Maybe one of the letters holds a clue as to who he is. Harry kinda wants to meet him, just to hug him, and tell him that he feels so alone in those letters, but Harry understands.

The Writer always asks his ‘Babe’ if he remembers. And Harry understands the feeling of _not_ remembering, more than most.

“Hazza” Niall sighs “You spaced out again”

Harry sighs. “Sorry, Ni. I swear I’m okay. I’m just thinking about the book”

Niall hums, like he’s letting this go, but he doesn’t really believe Harry.

Liam and Louis aren’t in the café yet, when Harry and Niall arrive. They settle in a booth at the corner, and Harry looks around a little bit. It’s cute, with light brown walls and blue chairs and tables. The counter has a window with a lot of delicious-looking pastries.

There’s no one else in the café, though, except some guy a couple tables away from them.

Harry hears Niall take a deep breath, almost a gasp, and he turns to look at his friend. Niall looks very pale. “Ni? You okay?”

“Yeah” Niall replies, too loud and quick to be true “It’s just, I realized, this is not the café Louis and Liam said, I’m so stupid, sorry Haz, we need to go or we’ll be la…”

“Oi oi!” Harry hears Louis’s scream, and the next moment he sees him enter the café with Liam.

Harry frowns at Niall. “They’re here”

Niall seems at a loss for some reason. “Yeah” he says, sighs “Yeah, I guess I was just confused”

Harry thinks there’s something his friends aren’t telling him, because Louis and Liam look around the café, and then they become a little pale as well, before exchanging a gaze with Niall.

“What the fuck’s going on?” he asks.

“Nothing” all three of them reply.

Harry is a bit tired, so he doesn’t feel like fighting whatever it is his friends are thinking. “Okay then” he declares “I’m starving”

He sits again, and he catches the other customer staring at him. Harry looks at him too. He’s extremely fit, with a leather jacket and skinny jeans, his hair long and loose, pitch black, and eyes so big Harry gets a bit lost. They’re honey-coloured, with long, long eyelashes.

_Fucking hell, I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as this person_.

The guy realizes Harry’s looking, and he goes rigid, tearing his gaze away from him, and concentrating on the menu he has in his hands.

Harry sighs, and focuses on his friends again. They’re all sitting at the table, and they’re all staring at him.

“What?” Harry hisses “He’s fit”

Niall sighs. They all do, really, but they don’t reply. “If you gotta be weird, I’m gonna go sit with the hot guy and hope he’ll be less weird” Harry announces.

Liam, Louis and Niall grab his arms at the same time. “No, no, stay!” Liam exclaims.

Harry laughs. “I was joking, lads” he amends, rolling his eyes “I swear, sometimes you three are really, really weird. Weirder than me, and that’s saying something, considering that some months ago I got the mother of all concussions”

Harry hears the guy snort, but when he looks at him again, he’s still concentrated on the menu, although Harry thinks he can see a hint of laughter in his eyes. He wonders when he became so good at reading people’s eyes.

Harry lets it go, and they all study the menu. Once they know what to order, they stand up to go at the counter.

“Harry?”

Harry turns, and realizes it’s the hot guy who has called him.

Harry frowns. “Um, yeah? How do you know my name?” he asks, and then regrets it, because the fit guy is probably his fan, that’s why he was staring at him and that’s why he knows his name.

The guy seems utterly shocked that he even spoke to Harry, so Harry reckons he’s right.

Then, the lad stands, and bends over, picking up something from the floor. “I, um, I heard your friends here call you. You lost this” he says, and hands Harry his fucking wallet.

Harry pats the back pocket of his jeans, uselessly because he can clearly see the fit man holding his wallet indeed, and then he sighs and takes it. “Cheers. Sorry, I always forget I have it in the back pocket of my jeans, and then I sit and it falls off”

The guy nods. “Yeah” he just says, a bit awkwardly.

Harry smiles. “I’m Harry” he says, stretching out a hand for him.

The guy stares at it for a long moment. In the silence, Harry notices his friends are not uttering a sound. The guy looks at them all with a blank expression, and then shakes Harry’s hand. “I’m Zayn” he says “Nice to meet you”

When their hands touch, it feels a bit like electricity.

Harry remembers a sentence he’s read in one of the Writer’s letters. _Do you remember the first time we really kissed, babe? It felt like lightning bolts running through my veins_.

Sure, he’s not _kissing_ this Zayn. But the touch feels a bit like lightning anyway.

Zayn stares at the lads, and after a moment he smiles. “I’m Zayn” he repeats for them.

They shake hands and introduce themselves, and Harry wishes they would stop being so weird and awkward, because it’s not like them.

“Do you wanna join us?” Harry asks Zayn, because he can’t explain it, but he kinda wants to keep talking to him “If you don’t have anything better to do”

Zayn seems at a loss for a moment. He seems a bit uncomfortable, Harry thinks. “I, um, yeah, I’d like to, but I can’t, unfortunately” Zayn stutters a little “I was actually going away, I have work in a few minutes”

“Oh” Harry says, pouts a little “Bummer. Okay then. Nice to meet you anyway, Zayn…”

“Malik” Zayn completes.

_Malik means ‘King’ in Urdu. Why the fuck do I even know this?_ , Harry thinks, deciding to blame his useless link-jumps on Wikipedia at four in the morning.

“Did you know it means ‘King’ in Urdu?” he asks Zayn with a grin, because he might as well use his useless knowledge to impress a fit bloke.

Zayn gapes a little. Harry sees his friends do the same with the corner of his eyes, when honestly, they should know by now that Harry’s brain is full of useless information. He didn’t remember he changed his fucking bedroom, but _of course_ he remembers random words in Urdu.

Zayn nods, clears his throat. “Yeah, my, my family, my family is from Pakistan. So I know. But it’s cool, that, um, that you know too”

Harry chuckles. “Useless information is what I do” he says, tapping his own temple with a finger.

Zayn smiles. “Yeah, babe, seems about right” he replies, and then his cheeks lose a little bit of colour, and he stutters more “I need to go now. Nice to meet you. Have a nice day” he says quickly, and completely bypasses Louis, Liam and Niall, going for the door.

He never turns back, and Harry’s sad about it, even though why should he even look back?

Harry sees Louis stare at the door out of which Zayn went, and Louis is sporting a sad expression of his own. At a closer inspection, so are Niall and Liam.

Harry doesn’t ask what’s wrong anymore, because he knows he won’t get an answer.

*

_Do you remember the day we started college, and you realized we were free?_

_High school was never freedom, for us. It was a tiny town, a school full of bullies, and we hid to survive._

_When we got to Edinburgh for college, the first night we went out, we all went to a gay club. And you smiled at me, told me we could be free._

_I loved watching you being free, even if it took you years to be free with me._

Harry sighs and places the finished letter in the box.

He’s become like a junkie. His friends are in his kitchen, making dinner for the four of them, and Harry lied about having to put at least another five hundred words down, when in reality he just wanted to finish that letter.

“What are you doing to me, Writer” he murmurs.

He forces himself not to take up the next letter. Instead, he goes to the bathroom, washes his face and hands, and decides to finally grace his friends with his presence.

When he goes out of the bathroom, he hears hushed whispers coming from the end of the corridor.

It’s Louis and Liam, and they’re hugging. “I can’t take this anymore, Leeyum” Louis says, sniffles.

Liam sighs and shushes him. “It’s gonna be okay, Lou. I promise”

“They’re so _unhappy_. It’s fucking killing me”

“We have to respect his choice, Lou. It’s not… it’s not our place to do anything”

“He’s being _stupid_ ” Louis grunts “This self-imposed… whatever the fuck he thinks it is, it’s stupid, and it’s killing him. And the rest of us”

“Lads?” Harry asks, frowning.

They gasp and see him approaching them.

Louis smiles brightly, a bit too brightly to be genuine. “Hey, Haz. We were coming to tell you dinner’s ready”

“Are you… are you okay?” Harry says tentatively.

Louis smiles some more and pats Harry on the back, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I’m peachy, my Hazza. Just peachy”

He doesn’t look like he is, but Harry lets it go.

We all have our secrets, don’t we. Harry’s hiding anonymous letters about a heart-breaking love story.

Louis can hide his own torment until he’ll be ready to let Harry in.

*

_Curly, charming, quirky, sexy._

_One of our friends once asked me to describe you in four words. I chose these._

_The truth is that I only need two words to describe you._

_My love._

Harry feels on the verge of tears for no apparent reason. He honestly doesn’t know why everything the Writer says—well, writes—hits him so close to the heart.

It’s not even about _what_ he writes anymore. Harry has learned to expect the blow to the heart even when he’s reading a normal sentence, a stupid _I miss you_ or _I remember that time when you smiled_.

Harry isn’t able to read anymore. His eyes are burning, and he’s sure it’s not just because he spent the whole night reading the letters.

He’s got to letter number sixty. There are only twenty-nine more letters. Harry doesn’t know what he’ll do when they’ll be over. Will it be like when a book he really likes is over, and he feels a bit restless, a bit like he now lacks a purpose?

It’s just letters. He should just stop reading them, and throw them away.

He doesn’t, but he gets dressed and decides to take a walk.

“I’m going, see you later!” he shouts when he’s going out the door, and then snaps his mouth shut.

What the fuck is he doing? He lives alone, for Christ’s sake.

Maybe his brain is not healing at all. Maybe it’s getting worse, and Harry is very close to losing his fucking mind for good.

He shakes his head, and goes out.

His feet automatically take him through the park, towards the lake. Harry doesn’t really have a reason as to why he likes that particular place so much. It’s not even that big of a lake, more of a glorified pond, and yet the grass is so green, and the sun is shining over it. The weather is crazy good for it being almost November.

When he gets to his favourite oak tree, he sees someone sitting under it, and he frowns. _Hey, that’s my spot_ , he thinks petulantly.

He’s about to sigh loudly and change his course, when he catches sight of the person.

He looks familiar. Something in Harry’s stomach flips a little, and his whole body feels like electricity is coursing through his veins.

He squints, and finally recognizes the person.

It’s the hot guy from the café. _Zayn_ , his mind supplies after a small effort in remembering. Harry smiles to himself a little, because even if he forgot about Zayn, it’s taken him just a handful of seconds to place him, and even without any help from a note. Not that he’d write himself a note about a fit bloke he barely spoke to in a café. He’s not that desperate. Yet.

Zayn sees him. His eyes widen a little, and he quickly stands up, looking around like he’s trying to find somewhere he can run to.

_No no no please don’t go_ , Harry’s mind shouts, alarmed. And then, _Calm the fuck down, Harry_.

Harry waves at Zayn, slowly covering the distance between them. “Hi” he says when he reaches him “Zayn, right? I don’t know if you remember. We met at that cute café with the blue tables and chairs, some days ago”

Zayn smiles, and nods. “Yeah, I remember. I’m surprised you do”

Harry frowns. “I have an excellent memory, I’ll have you know” he lies.

Zayn chuckles, and nods again. “Whatever you say, babe” he replies, and then freezes.

Harry feels his cheeks get warmer at the pet name, and he briefly thinks about the Writer and his ‘Babe’. Then he shakes his head. _No, you stay out of my head today, Writer_.

Harry smiles. “How are you?”

“Not too shabby. What about you? Did you manage not to lose your wallet again?”

Harry laughs, patting the back pocket of his jeans, where his wallet is. “Yeah, yeah, it’s here. Who knows for how long, though. Luckily I literally have nothing in it. Just my credit card. But it’s very easy to block, should I lose it. And I’m rambling. Sorry” he laughs nervously.

Why is he even _nervous_? Harry is _good_ at talking to fit blokes. Why is this Zayn making him nervous?

Zayn chuckles. “Yeah, I reckon you must be an expert at blocking your cards ‘cause you lost them”

It’s true. Harry might not remember things sometimes, but he perfectly remembers how to block a card when he loses it, seeing that it’s happened quite a fair share of times. Maybe even more times than he remembers now.

“What are you up to?” Harry decides to ask “We might get that coffee”

Zayn grins. “I don’t think I remember having a pending coffee with you” he says. He looks more at ease now that they’re alone. Maybe he was acting all weird at the café because the lads were there and he felt observed.

Harry clears his throat. “Well, I did invite you to join me and my friends and you declined. So we do have a pending coffee”

Zayn laughs. “You really remember everything, don’t you” he retorts, and it sounds like he’s good-naturedly mocking Harry.

He doesn’t even know how right he is, to mock him about his memory.

“I do” Harry replies nonetheless “So, what do you say?”

Zayn is silent for a moment, in which he stares at Harry a bit too hard for Harry’s own good. Then, he sighs and nods. “Okay. Might do with a coffee”

*

They exchange numbers. Zayn seems a bit reluctant to give his to Harry at first, but Harry insists and flashes his dimples, because he’s conscious of how many things he won just by using the dimples. And they do work, because Zayn seems to deflate when Harry grins, and the next moment he’s punching his number into Harry’s phone, saving it simply as ‘Zayn’.

Zayn looks very comfortable with Harry’s iPhone, despite the fact that he doesn’t have one himself, and Harry always thought it was weird for Android people to use iPhones at first. He knows that he literally can’t do anything with an Android phone without looking like an eighty-year-old who doesn’t know what a smartphone is.

When they’re done exchanging numbers, they amicably part ways with a hug.

The second their bodies collide, something flashes in Harry’s brain.

_The first time I hugged you after I knew I loved you, I was shaking and I tried to hide it by gripping you tighter._

Harry doesn’t know where the thought comes from. It’s probably another one of the Writer’s sentences. They get stuck to his brain.

Zayn grips him a bit tighter before letting him go with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll see you around, Harry, yeah?”

Harry nods, a bit at a loss. “Yeah, Zayn. See you around”

*

_“Harry. Harry, babe. My love. You’re so fucking beautiful. Sometimes I can’t believe you chose me of all people. You could have anyone”_

_“But I don’t want anyone. I want you”_

_He runs his fingers up Harry’s spine. They’re in bed, Harry lying down on his stomach. He’s next to Harry, on his side, his head propped on his own hand. He smiles, but Harry can’t see his face, it’s too dark._

_Harry chuckles. “How can you even say I’m beautiful if we can’t see shit in this darkness?”_

_He sighs. “Harry. Harry. I don’t need to see you to know. I have you burned behind my fucking eyelids. When I’m awake, I see you. When my eyes are closed, I see you. You’re all I see, feels like”_

_They kiss. His lips are soft. Harry knows this, he was born to know this. The feeling of his lips against his own. His hands running up and down his sides._

_“Harry. Harry. Harry. My love. Don’t go”_

_“I’m not going anywhere”_

_“You’re already gone, babe”_

Harry wakes up with a gasp, the memories of the dream falling away from him like old skin. He frantically tries to place them back together, and fails. He doesn’t remember the face of the man, he probably never even saw it in the dream. It felt so nice, the way he touched Harry, the way he whispered his name over and over again.

It doesn’t feel like a dream.

It feels real.

His voice was nice. Rich, raspy, but not too low. With a thick accent.

Harry realizes, and rolls his eyes at himself. He’s just had a semi-wet dream about a faceless man with the voice his brain has decided to give to the Writer.

“What the fuck” he mutters.

He turns to look at the note he left for himself on the nightstand. _You met a fit bloke some days ago at a café, and you met him again yesterday. His name’s Zayn, remember? You exchanged numbers. He’s clever and cute. Don’t fuck it up._

“I remember, cheers” Harry tells the note with a snarl.

_There’s nothing that could make me forget Zayn_ , he then thinks.

It’s a lie, he thinks. He forgets everything.

But he didn’t forget Zayn, so Harry chooses to see it as an improvement.

*

“I’m seeing someone” Harry announces that night, while he cooks dinner for himself, Niall, Liam and Louis.

It’s like his friends don’t particularly feel like going out, lately. Since the accident, actually. Maybe they think Harry still hasn’t completely recovered yet. Well, it’s true. He doesn’t much feel like going out himself. He’d rather stay at home with them.

He hears a small commotion behind him, and turns from the stoves, seeing his friends stare at him with pale faces, like they’ve seen a ghost. Louis has sent a glass of water tumbling on the table, and he’s now wiping the water with a rag, his face tight.

Harry arches an eyebrow. “I didn’t want to cause a tsunami” he says with a chuckle.

“Haz?” Niall asks, gulps down, clears his throat “What did you say?”

Harry faces them and puts his hands on his hips, a bit annoyed. “That I’m seeing someone. Why is that such a surprise? I haven’t gone out with anyone in ages, I know, but it was bound to happen sooner or later”

The truth is that he’s not even sure he’s _seeing_ Zayn. They hang out. They talk a lot. Zayn is super nice. But they haven’t even kissed yet. Maybe Zayn is friend-zoning Harry and Harry is too dumb to realize. Either way, he wants his friends to know.

He turns to face the stoves again, feeling his cheeks burn. “Well, maybe that’s an overstatement. We’re hanging out. We haven’t even kissed yet, but I don’t wanna rush this because I really like this bloke” he says honestly “You met him too. His name’s Zayn. We ran into him at that café when I lost my wallet. He’s really nice”

They don’t reply for a moment. When Harry turns to face them again, he doesn’t know how to interpret the small smiles he sees on their faces.

It’s like they’re happy, but they’re sad at the same time. “What?” he asks harshly.

Louis smiles some more. “Nothing, Haz, it’s like, it’s great, yeah? That you and this Zayn get along. I’m sure he’s really nice”

“You don’t seem convinced” Harry arches an eyebrow.

Louis shrugs. “I don’t know the lad, so I can’t be sure” he replies, and his eyes roam around Harry’s face, everywhere but his eyes.

Harry realizes what’s wrong with his friends. They’re _worried_ about him, bless them. “Well” he sighs, starting to distribute the vegetables in four plates “Maybe if this becomes something serious, you can meet him. But don’t be weird like last time. The poor bloke probably thought we were a group of psychos who just ran away from an asylum”

Liam laughs. “Well, he wasn’t far from the truth. Your brain is all whacky”

“Excuse me, Liam. My _perfect_ brain is _a bit_ whacky” he amends with a grin “Zayn doesn’t know. But I think he noticed. I’ll tell him, sooner or later”

Niall smiles. “In your own time, Harry. I’m sure Zayn will understand”

“I hope so” Harry sighs “I really hope so”

*

_I don’t remember the first time that I saw you, because we met when we were too young to have a memory of it._

_But I remember the first time that I saw you._

_You showered at my place on campus after we studied together. We had plans to go out with the lads. You came out of the bathroom with just a towel around your hips, and I saw your tattoos. I was there when you got every single one of them. When I saw them that night, I felt like I’d never seen them before._

_You blushed when I stared at you. You always blush when I stare at you. It’s been twenty fucking years since I know you, and you still blush when I stare at you._

_You asked me “What the fuck are you looking at?” with a small smile. I told you, “You”. You said “Stop it”. I didn’t, because I was fed up with the Just Friends, fed up with always watching you choose someone else for the night, fed up with being there without you being mine. So I stood up and I reached you by the wall. It took a big fucking leap of faith, babe, doing that. I was so afraid I’d fuck everything up. But I couldn’t wait anymore. It was killing me._

_You blushed more, asked me “What are you doing?”._

_And I was a cocky little shit, as you said later, because I told you, “You”._

_We kissed. It was our real first kiss._

_It was extremely easy, considering the amount of problems and obstacles we created for ourselves with our own hands before that._

_After that night, there hasn’t been a day in which we haven’t kissed._

_Until a month ago. That’s when we stopped kissing for good. I’m sure neither of us wanted to stop._

_We shouldn’t have fought about that stupid text, babe. It was nothing, I know now. If we hadn’t fought about it, I wouldn’t have gone out. I wouldn’t have had to come back. You wouldn’t have gotten in your fucking car._

_You would still be here with me._

“Shit” Harry sighs. Letter number seventy-one ends like that.

It’s like the Writer’s mood is slowly deteriorating. It’s been ages since Harry has read a fun letter. The last ones seem to be only full of pain and regret. That of course doesn’t mean Harry wants to stop.

His phone buzzes on his nightstand. It’s way past midnight, so he frowns and unlocks the screen.

It’s Zayn.

_Do you remember yesterday when I told you I’ve never read any of your books?_

Harry chuckles. Zayn has this habit of always starting his texts with ‘Do you remember’. It reminds Harry of the Writer.

_Yes, Zayn, I do remember you telling me you don’t give a fuck about me being The Shit in terms of best-selling novels, cheers_

Zayn sends a row of _ahahahah_ , and then keeps typing. _I was kinda lying, babe. I read them. I love them. I didn’t wanna tell you because maybe you’d think I’m only friends with you cos you’re famous. I still don’t give a fuck. I have many reasons for being around you. But I’m sorry I lied._

Harry’s heart does a small somersault, but he’s not angry about Zayn’s small lie. He forces himself not to ask Zayn a very detailed critique on his books, and just replies with _It’s fine, babe. It’s no big deal. I still like you_ , and pairs it with a heart emoji, because he can’t help it.

Zayn types and deletes for a while, before just sending a heart of his own.

Harry’s mood is lifted thanks to Zayn, so he doesn’t read another letter before going to sleep. The Writer will forgive him.

*

_Harry. Harry, babe. My love. Do you remember when we started working at the bakery downtown, The Cinnamon Roll, shortly after we started dating? We were so disgustingly in love that our friends said they would throw up in our pastries if we didn’t tune it down._

_We didn’t. We did all sorts of sappy rom-com things. I licked sugar crumbs from your lips. You fed me pastries with your tongue. I fucked you on the counter after closing time. We did it all._

_Do you remember, Harry? Do you remember that I didn’t have eyes for anybody else?_

_Don’t go, babe. Come back to me. Please. I can’t breathe without you._

Harry wakes up with another gasp. It’s happening a lot, lately.

It’s like the Writer’s words are carved so deep inside Harry’s heart that he dreams about them like they’re memories, like they’re directed at him.

But these aren’t the Writer’s words. Harry’s sure he’s never read about any bakery in the letters.

He showers and works at his book a little bit. He’s not particularly inspired, if he’s honest, but he keeps trying until three hours have passed, and his eyes are going cross.

He then comes to terms with the fact that he only has fifteen letters left, and he wants to keep reading them.

So he takes the next one, breaks the seal of the envelope, and reads.

_Babe, do you remember when we found the bakery? You said it was cute and they were looking for staff, so we could apply._

“What?” Harry hisses. He feels his hands start to shake. What are the fucking chances?

_We got hired, like, on the spot. Mrs. Plummet was so happy that two fit blokes like ourselves wanted to help her with her bakery._

_We did a lot of stuff in that place, didn’t we? The lads said it was disgusting, and that they were very close to throwing up in the pastries. It was very rude of them, considering that we never made them pay for their breakfast._

“No no no what are you saying what does this mean” Harry murmurs, almost cries.

He puts the letter down, and starts pacing around the room, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. “What the fuck what the fuck” he whispers to himself.

Harry’s sure he’ hasn’t read that letter before, so there’s no chance he forgot it and then dreamt about it. All the letters are sealed, with the adhesive stripe at the opening tightly glued. The letter was _unopened_ three fucking minutes ago.

Harry doesn’t know what to do, so he keeps reading.

_If only Mrs. Plummet really knew what we got up to when she wasn’t there. All the times we closed the bakery and stayed locked inside, fucking each other against all the counters, covering ourselves in sugar and honey just to be able to lick it off. You always took care of cleaning everything up afterwards, said “It’s not sanitary, babe, but I fucking love it”._

_I guess we both discovered a bit of a food kink thanks to The Cinnamon Roll._

Harry screams and throws the letter on the bed like it’s burning.

He doesn’t think. He just runs to his phone, his fingers failing to punch in the passcode three times. When he manages, he calls Louis.

“Hazza?” Louis answers on the fifth ring.

“Did I forget someone, Lou?” Harry asks, shouts.

Louis’s breath sounds like he’s holding it. “Harry? Harry, calm down. What did you say?”

“Did I forget _someone_ , Louis?” Harry screams “Is there _someone_ I don’t fucking remember and none of you told me about?”

Louis doesn’t reply for a couple moments. “Why, Harry?”

“What the fuck do you mean _why_?” Harry shrieks “Answer the fucking question!”

“Haz, you need to breathe, okay” Louis says gently, but his voice is clearly shaking “Do you want me to come over? Make sure you’re okay?”

“I’m not okay!” Harry screams, feeling hot tears trickle down his cheeks “I’m not okay, because I’ve been having dreams about something I thought my brain was making up because of the fucking letters I found, but it’s different, isn’t it, the letters have something to do with me, and I don’t fucking know what it means, I feel like I’m not supposed to be here in my house alone all the time, I always shout that I’m home when I come back and my bedroom is too fucking big and I think I’m losing my fucking mind and…”

“Harry!” Louis shouts, interrupting his ramble “Harry, breathe!”

Harry does. He takes a deep breath, but he’s still hiccupping, still sobbing, and he doesn’t even know why.

Louis sighs. “Give me, Liam and Niall half an hour. We’re coming to your place, okay?”

“Louis, please” Harry begs “I need to know. Did I forget someone?”

Louis stays silent. “Wait for us, Harry” he then only says, and ends the call.

And well, Louis didn’t have to say yes to confirm it. The fact that he didn’t say no is confirmation enough.

Harry doesn’t know what to do, so he reads the last ten letters.

*

_Your Mum calls me ‘love’. Your stepfather calls me ‘son’._

_It’s like we’ve always been family, before being lovers, babe._

_I haven’t seen your Mum and your stepfather in more than a month as well. I can’t take it, looking at them in the face. I can’t even stand looking at myself in the mirror, babe._

_It’s my fault._

_I’m so fucking alone._

_Our friends want to see me. I always tell them no. I think this is killing them as well. They were so sad last time they saw me._

_-_

_Do you remember when we moved in together? You said the bedroom of the new house was too big, and that you were glad it was for the two of us._

_I told you we could make a studio for you in one half of the room. You said “Babe, I haven’t even finished the first draft of the first book yet, I don’t need a studio”._

_-_

_Do you remember the day we married?_

_I do. I was so fucking scared. The only thing I could think was, what if I’m not enough? What if he doesn’t like the life we’re gonna have together? What if I’m not enough?_

_You knew what I was feeling, as you always do. Because when you reached me in front of the minister, you hugged me, and then you cupped my face with your hands—I love your hands, they’re big, I miss them so fucking much—and you smiled, and you told me “You’re already enough”. Like you were literally inside my head._

_You are, babe. You’ve been inside my head since I knew how to think._

_-_

_I saw you today. You didn’t see me. And even if you did, you didn’t recognize me anyway, did you? You forgot me. I think I’ve accepted it._

_No, that’s a lie. I’ll never accept it._

_This is the last letter I’ll write, babe. It hurts too much to know you’ll never read any of them anyway. I think_

A knock on the door interrupts Harry.

He’s crying, he’s crying so much that it’s taken him an absurdly long time to push through the letters.

He has no doubts they’re about him, now.

Because there are so many things he didn’t notice before. The way the Writer always strikes something deep in Harry’s heart. The way his head hurts. He knows why, now. It’s because the words are trying to poke something in Harry’s memory, something big, something he _forgot_.

And if it wasn’t enough, the last sentences just confirmed it. _You forgot me_.

Harry feels like the ground is water as he stands up and opens the door.

He’s greeted by four pairs of eyes.

Louis.

Liam.

Niall.

And Zayn.

_What the fuck is he doing here why did they bring him how did they bring him._

Harry feels on the verge of a panic attack. Zayn shouldn’t be involved in this, he doesn’t even know about the accident, he’s gonna think Harry’s a nutcase, and besides, if the letters really are for Harry, he’s apparently fucking _married_ , and Zayn doesn’t know, and Harry doesn’t know either.

“Harry” Louis says gently, stepping inside “Harry, breathe”

Harry shakes his head, still staring at Zayn. “Why is he here? Why did you bring him?”

Nobody replies. Zayn is still outside the door, looking confused and dismayed, and Liam slowly pats him on the shoulder. “C’mon, Zed. Chin up”

_Zed?_

Harry doesn’t know what to do. He never knows what to do, feels like. He just takes a ragged breath, and goes to the living room, not bothering to check if they follow him. He knows they will.

When they’re all in the room, Harry sees them notice the box and the clusterfuck of opened letters on the couch. Harry went through all of them again, re-reading stuff.

Placing things together.

_I love your hair. It’s long and curly._

_Your green eyes always smile._

_Your tattoos don’t seem to have any logic, but you pull them off._

_You said your first chest piece hurt like a motherfucker._

Harry remembers all those things. Remembers someone saying them to him, remembers being with someone in his house, in his bed.

He doesn’t remember a face, though.

Zayn also sees the letters. His face goes a bit pale, and he sags against Liam, who gently steadies him.

Harry frowns. “You know each other?” he asks, because it’s evident.

Louis nods. “Harry?” he then says “What are these letters?”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t know. I found them by the lake. Some dogs were playing with the box. Then they went away. I saw the letters. I brought them home. And I read them” he explains, as concisely and blankly as he can.

Niall sighs. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It was nothing!” Harry exclaims “Just a good reading. I thought it was nothing. And then, then I… I started having dreams about what I read in the letters. They felt so fucking real. I started… I started _missing_ something” he’s crying now, and he clutches a hand to his chest, because it’s like there’s a _hole_ in there, a hole he doesn’t know how to fill “And then I started dreaming about things I hadn’t read _yet_ in the letters. I dreamt about a fucking bakery called The Cinnamon Roll. And I only read about it in a letter _afterwards_. So I freaked out. I forgot someone, didn’t I?”

Nobody replies, and Harry’s floodgates open. “Answer the fucking question, lads!” he screams, crying his heart out “Please! I need to know if these letters are about me! Because I’m losing my fucking mind!” Harry remembers Zayn is there as well, and tries to lower his voice “I’m sorry, Zayn. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I’m a nutcase. I guess you might as well know now. I had an accident. At the beginning of July. My memory is damaged. I thought I was healing. But I just found out I forgot someone, someone very important, someone who has been writing letters to me without ever sending them, and yet they came to me anyway, and I’m losing my mind”

Zayn doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, he kindly removes himself from Liam, and takes a step closer.

“Do you remember now, Harry?” he asks, his voice, his lovely voice, breaking.

Something breaks inside Harry too.

_Do you remember when we first kissed, babe?_

_Do you remember when we moved for college?_

_Do you remember when you told me you hated me?_

_Do you remember when you told me you loved me?_

_Do you remember?_

_Do you remember?_

_Do you remember?_

Harry’s legs shake and give up, and he falls sitting on the couch, the letters crumpling under his arse.

He doesn’t speak. His brain is trying to tell him _something_ , and he doesn’t understand.

“Have you read all of them?” Zayn asks, coldly.

Harry frowns. “No” he says “I was reading the last one when you guys knocked at my door”

Zayn nods. “Finish it” he says, and his voice sounds a bit alien “Please, Harry. Finish the last letter”

Harry doesn’t question it, because there’s _something_ in Zayn’s eyes, and he’s done trying to understand what the fuck is happening.

So he picks up the last letter, and resumes his reading.

_This is the last letter I’ll write, babe. It hurts too much to know you’ll never read any of them anyway. I think at this point you’ll never remember me._

_You remembered everybody else, just a couple of days after you woke up._

_You never remembered me. That’s why I thought it was best if I didn’t show up for a while._

_A while became forever. You never remembered me, but everybody says apart from that, you’re fine._

_Apart from that._

_I disappeared. The lads think I’m being stupid. But it’s my fault, that you forgot me, isn’t it._

_So I’ll leave you alone, and I’ll stop writing. You always said writing is therapeutic, so that’s why I did it. But it’s not helping, babe. It’s only killing me more._

_If it makes you be okay, then I hope you never remember me. I’ll remember for both of us, and I’ll take this to my grave._

_No, that’s another lie. Remember me, please, babe._

_You always said “Don’t be so fucking melodramatic all the time, Zayn”._

_I have to be, babe, because this is all I have now._

_Harry. Harry, babe. My love. You’re so fucking beautiful._

_Please, remember me. When it’s time. When you’re ready._

_I’m sorry I destroyed you and myself. I’m sorry I destroyed us._

_I love you, Harry._

_I love you, babe._

Harry doesn’t know where he finds the strength to raise his head and look at Zayn.

Zayn is standing right in front of him, shaking from head to toe, tears in his lovely eyes.

The caramel eyes peeking in Harry’s dreams every once in a while.

“Do you remember, Harry?” Zayn asks.

With his lovely voice, the voice with the thick accent Harry thought he was making up.

Harry doesn’t reply. He looks down at the letter, and he sees his own hand. On his ring finger, there’s a lighter patch of skin, like he used to wear a ring there, and now he doesn’t wear it anymore.

He wonders how he never noticed.

“It’s you?” he just asks, and his own voice feels foreign in his mouth.

Zayn nods. And then he burst out crying, burying his face in his hands. “I miss you so fucking much, babe. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry”

Harry’s stomach sends a wave of nausea up his throat. “I don’t remember” he says.

Zayn nods. “I know” he says “I know you don’t. Because it’s my fault. Your brain doesn’t want you to remember it was my fault”

Harry hears thunder roar outside. And he thought the weather was being weirdly nice. It’s not anymore.

He sees the lads behind Zayn. They’re all crying as well. Louis looks utterly devastated.

And yet, they’re not as devastated as Harry. It’s like everything he thought and did since he woke up from the accident was a lie, something artificial, a life Zayn made for him without himself in it. There are no actual signs of them living together, only Harry’s weird feelings.

Zayn wiped himself from Harry’s life and from their house.

“Go away” he tells him, and the others “I need to be alone”

“Harry…” Louis tries.

“Go away. Please. Get out” Harry begs them “Leave me alone. I can’t breathe. Go away. I’ll call you, Lou, I promise. But I need you all to leave me the fuck alone right now”

They nod, sad frowns adorning all their faces. Louis slowly grabs Zayn’s arm, while Zayn stares at Harry like he can’t believe Harry’s kicking him out.

But Zayn went away himself, didn’t he? If he’d stayed, maybe Harry would have remembered him eventually, like he did anybody else. Zayn didn’t _fight_ for Harry to remember him, and all the beautiful, heart-breaking things he’s confessed in his letters don’t count shit anymore.

“C’mon, Zed” Louis says in a gentle whisper “C’mon”

Zayn shakes his head. “Harry” he says, licking the tears staining his own lips “Harry, please, don’t send me away. I don’t care that you don’t remember me, not anymore. You didn’t remember me, and yet you felt drawn to my letters and to _me_ anyway, didn’t you? When we met at the café. You wanted to speak to me. Didn’t you?” he rambles, quickly “I threw the letters away. And yet they found their way to you anyway. You always believed in destiny. Didn’t you?”

Harry nods. “You don’t care that I don’t remember” he says slowly “But I do. I do, because you have erased yourself from my life, without even looking at me in the face. And I care about that”

Harry can see Zayn’s heart break for good. He can see it in his eyes, _his lovely eyes his eyelashes are so long they sparkle when he laughs I remember looking at them years ago and thinking they couldn’t be real._

Harry thinks he isn’t able to speak anymore. Louis manages to pull Zayn away, and Harry stares at his back as he goes.

_That night we fought about Nick sending me a text out of the blue. I looked at his back as he went out of the house. He’d always been jealous of my exes. Especially Nick. But it was nothing. Just a spam message. Nick got a computer virus or something. Zayn didn’t even want to know what the text was about. He just saw Nick’s name, and he flipped. He’d been already upset the whole day about not being able to finish his graphic novel in time for the deadline._

Harry keeps staring at Zayn’s back as the lads gently guide him outside the door of his own house. He hears another thunder.

_I told him he was flipping for no reason. He got even madder, and left. It was raining._

Harry stands up, his legs shaking. He follows them to the door, holding himself upright by gripping the doorframe.

It’s raining a lot, he can see them getting soaked. Zayn looks like he can’t walk properly, Louis is holding him steady.

_I decided to go fucking look for him after an hour. I can’t stand being mad at him, or him being mad at me. We’re fucking married, for Christ’s sake. We should stop fighting like angsty teenagers._

Harry’s legs give up again, and he falls on the doorstep, his kneecaps hitting the wooden floor with a painful _thud_.

_I got in my car. I couldn’t see shit. I knew where he would be, though. At Louis’s. He always goes to Louis when he’s upset. I drove through the small street behind our house, because I knew it would make the trip so much quicker._

“Zayn” Harry wheezes, gasps. His brain is exploding. “Zayn”

Zayn turns. He looks at Harry, and then starts running towards him, shaking Louis and Liam away when they try to stop him.

_I was going too fast. I was so eager to see him and kiss him and tell him “You’re stupid, it was nothing, come back home”._

_I saw the other car, but it was too late. We were both swerving, because of the rain, because of the muddy asphalt._

_I understood we were gonna crash._

_Before we did, I recognized the car. And the driver._

_It was him, coming home, eager to see me and kiss me and tell me I was stupid as well. We always have the same fucking ideas, don’t we._

_We crashed against each other._

_He was the other driver who also got hurt._

_Is he okay? Where was he hurt? I can’t breathe. My brain is exploding._

“Harry” Zayn says, kneeling down in front of him. They’re both soaked, and Harry is trying to gasp for air.

He remembers now.

He remembers a kiss on top of a hill while the sun was setting.

He remembers telling Zayn they should be Just Friends because he thought it was the best thing for both of them at the time. They were so young, and Harry was afraid love would fuck everything up.

He remembers fucking anyone available, and always coming biting his tongue so that he wouldn’t call for Zayn when those people weren’t, in fact, Zayn.

He remembers getting the swallows tattooed on his chest and almost throwing up, with Zayn holding his hand.

He remembers telling him that he was already enough, and then marrying the shit out of him.

He remembers crashing his car against Zayn’s, and waking up with no memory of him.

Zayn cups his face with his hands, and his face is soaked in rain and tears, Harry can tell the difference, because he’s spent his whole life looking at those eyes. “Harry” Zayn murmurs “Harry, babe. My love. Breathe. Please. I can’t breathe if you don’t”

“It wasn’t your fault” Harry whispers “It wasn’t your fault. We shouldn’t have fought in the first place. It was both of us. It was stupid. A stupid fight. It wasn’t your fault”

Zayn chuckles, and bursts out crying again. “I miss you so fucking much, babe” he moans.

Harry nods. “I miss you too. So much. The bedroom’s too big. I always say ‘I’m home’ and ‘I’m leaving’ even though I live alone. But I don’t live alone. I don’t. You live with me. Come back. Come back, Zayn”

Zayn kisses him.

It’s like their first kiss, Harry thinks when their mouths collide.

It feels a bit like lightning bolts.

*

Louis, Niall and Liam take the guest room. Harry remembers them years earlier, being crammed in one single bed so that they could leave Harry and Zayn in another room, alone, because they hoped the sexual tension would be resolved eventually, and they could all live happily ever after.

Louis says sorry to Harry for hiding things from him. Niall and Liam do as well. Harry doesn’t find it in his heart to blame them. He knows it was what Zayn had asked them to do, and even if it killed them as well, they respected his decision. Everybody did. Harry’s family too.

Harry and Zayn are in Harry’s bedroom. _Their_ bedroom.

Harry thought it would be weird, but now it just feels like all the space has a purpose, because it’s for the two of them, and not just Harry.

They don’t talk about the letters. They can talk about them another time.

Zayn tells him he still thinks that Harry didn’t remember him because it’s his fault, the accident, so Harry’s brain didn’t want Harry to remember.

Harry tells him that he thinks it’s because Zayn was the most important part of his life, and he had so many things to remember about him, that his damaged brain couldn’t cope. But he did remember, in the end. Zayn only needed to be patient instead of being so fucking melodramatic all the time and erase himself from Harry’s life.

Zayn takes off the small silver chain he always has around his neck. It’s so long, and the pendant has always been hidden under whatever top Zayn was wearing. Now Harry sees the pendants. It’s two rings. Harry recognizes them on the spot. Their wedding rings.

“I took yours” Zayn says in barely a whisper “When the doctors took it off while you were unconscious. I took mine off as well. But I never managed to be separated from them. I always wore them”

Harry nods. Because he understands. Zayn slides one of the rings, the biggest of the two, onto Harry’s ring finger. Then he gives the other to Harry, and Harry’s hands shake a little when he also slides it on Zayn’s finger. They both shake like the first time they ever slid a ring on each other’s fingers.

They don’t speak much after that.

They stand together in the middle of the room, and they kiss.

Zayn’s lips trace paths along Harry’s body, paths that Harry remembers, and that Zayn himself carved a lifetime ago.

They fall in bed, Harry underneath Zayn, and Harry discovers that he remembers Zayn’s body as well. He remembers all the places he can touch to make Zayn shiver, all the spots that make Zayn pant and groan if Harry presses his tongue on them.

When they undress each other, and Harry takes off Zayn’s jeans, his heart stops a little.

There’s a scar, a big, huge scar on Zayn’s left thigh. It goes from Zayn’s hip to his knee, white and pale and thick, a memory of the accident they both caused.

“They said I would never walk properly again” Zayn whispers “But I did”

Harry nods. “They said I would never stop forgetting stuff when I woke up in the morning” he replies “But since I met you again, I never forgot a single thing”

They kiss again. Zayn rests his lips on every single inch of Harry’s body, and Harry runs his hands up and down Zayn’s scar, worshipping it like a long-lost memory he now found.

Zayn looks for the lube in the drawer on his side of the bed, the side on which Harry has never slept even when he thought the bed was all his, and then opens Harry up slowly, thoroughly, being considerate of the fact that it’s been four months since they last had sex.

They don’t use a condom, because they haven’t for years. And needless to say, neither of them ever even _looked_ at anybody else since the accident. Not even Harry, not even if he didn’t remember he was taken, had been taken since he was eleven.

Zayn keeps Harry underneath him, on his back, the whole time. He never stops looking at him, not even when he starts slowly pushing his dick inside him, with movements that are now as familiar to Harry as breathing, again, as they should be.

Harry feels his face warm up under Zayn’s stare and his hands holding him close, and Zayn chuckles, and Harry remembers the words of the Writer. Zayn.

_It’s been twenty fucking years, and you still blush when I stare at you_.

Harry asks for more, harder, faster.

Zayn obliges, keeping Harry tethered to himself as he cants his hips, sliding out to the tip and slamming back in with all he has, hitting something deep inside Harry, something he knows only Zayn ever knew how to find with such certainty, such precision.

It’s not something purely anatomical, he thinks. It’s more.

They come together, at the exact same time. Harry screams, and says a mental sorry for his friends in the other room.

Zayn shouts too, and because he’s a cocky little shit, he just grins at Harry.

They don’t sleep much.

They talk.

Harry tells Zayn everything he remembers, and Zayn nods, crying when he understands it’s his letters that brought Harry, his Harry, back.

“Harry. Harry, babe. My love. You’re so fucking beautiful. You’ve been since we were eleven on the top of the hill, and the sun was setting, and you were golden. You were golden that day, Harry. You’ve always been golden ever since, to me. Do you remember, Harry, babe? Do you remember?” Zayn whispers when dawn comes, and the weak sun filters through the window, hitting Harry in the face.

Harry smiles, and kisses Zayn. “Zayn. Zayn, babe. My love. You’re so fucking beautiful. I remember now. That day, on the hill when we were eleven, I didn’t look at the city in the valley. I looked at our shadows in the grass, and I thought we were perfect together. And then I looked at you. And you were golden as well. You’ve always been golden to me. I remember. I remember.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story was a bit out of my comfort zone, but I thought I would give it a try anyway. You didn't find my usual plot-twist-y style. It was more focused on what the characters felt, and the plot was of course there, but the feelings were more important, in my opinion. I hope you enjoyed it anyway.
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as wont-you-stay-till-the-am.tumblr.com, come hit me up if you wanna talk.


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